Quiescit Anima Libris
by ayashina
Summary: "How fitting, that the sheets Charles would use as a child to play at being a ghost now hold captive the spirits anchoring him in his past." Post-First Class, past Erik/Charles


**A/N: **Something Amberpire suggested I might try. This may not exactly be what you had in mind, but I hope you enjoy it anyways!

Here's to me popping my Angst!fic cherry?

Charles hates his bed. He hasn't slept there in a while, it's much easier to sleep in his study, where he can always be close to his work. Just _that_ much more progress is worth the occasional crick in his neck, and it's not like he has to worry about his _spine _anymore. But whenever Hank catches him, he gets all _concerned _(like he's one to talk, hidden away in his laboratory day and night), and Charles lets him wheel him back to his room for the night.

…

_"You always work late." Erik wraps his arms around Charles' shoulders, listening to the dull clicking of the typewriter. It's merely a statement, an observation, but Charles likes to think Erik is pouting over his work habits, even though it would never be in Erik's character to do so._

_"I'll be done soon. See you then?"_

_Erik rests his chin against the top of Charles' head, massaging the professor's temples. "I will wait for you, I am quite comfortable."_

_Charles is not exactly how much movement in the facial muscles affects each other, but he hopes Erik knows he is smiling._

…

It's pointless, really. It'd be much more productive if Charles slept in his study, comfort be damned. He's in a _wheelchair_, five hundred thread count egyptian cotton would just be wasted on his paralyzed state.

In truth, Charles is a bit scared of sleeping in his bed, because he feels there is a stigma there. Not that he'd ever admit it, he gets enough pity as it is.

Pity. He swears he thinks in Magneto's voice every time he conjures up something particularly nasty in the very recesses of his mind, and he _hates _it. He hates believing that Erik is capable of anything malicious or immoral, even after all that's happened. Because _his _Erik, the one he still hopes will miraculously appear and stay with him forever, the one whose memory Charles still clings to, is perfect. Charles dwells on his past, for all his talk of progress, and it's much easier to sleep for a few solid, uncomfortable hours in his study, than to toss and turn for an eternity in crisp linen that he imagines still smells faintly metallic with a touch of _Genus Mimulus._

…

_Charles rests on Erik's chest, half-memorizing the lines of his jaw with lethargic contentment. Light obscured by the tall oak by his window leaves dapples of sunlight across Erik's brow, and Charles was happy to watch the world wake up around his bed while his little corner feels untouched by the morning. Erik peeks up at him as the golden flecks fret over his features._

_"I can't get up for my morning run with you lying on me."_

_"_Good. _I like everything the way it is."_

_Wrapping his arms around Charles waist, Erik lets his head fall back against his pillow. "I can never argue with you when you're like this."_

_Charles shimmies higher up Erik's body and kisses the corner of his mouth, grinning when he feels Erik's lips curl upwards into a lazy smile._

_"Your jog can wait."_

…

Charles lies in the corner of his bed, feeling a chill creep up on him despite the pleasantly warm summer evening. Charles finds time is moving excruciatingly slowly, but he knows there's no way he could convince Hank to take him back to his study. Charles stopped crying about Erik a while back, but the dull, throbbing silence in the back of his head where Erik would usually trickle in is enough of a reminder of the gap between him and Magneto. That pain, that silence, is amplified when Charles is in his room. His study is abuzz with goals and conceptions, keeping Charles' occupied as he focuses on _important _things, moving forwards instead of lying still and staring into the hollow memories echoing through his bedroom.

…

_Erik is pressing firm kisses against Charles' jawline, leaving a series of sore, red marks in his wake. His fingers drag through Charles' sweat dampened hair, occasionally catching his scalp with his nails as Charles feels minute, fragile noises escape from the very back of his throat. Erik is spewing out gushes of raw pain, and the pangs cut through Charles like steel._

_"Erik-"_

_Erik hovers over him for a second, arms braced by Charles' head, and _stares. _There's a challenge behind that look, in all of it's bitter, held-together glory. He's pouring out a sea of anguish, and Charles is powerless and small in comparison. Erik kisses him, and the edge of teeth feels closer and entirely sharper._

_It's nights like this that make Charles' heart ache. Erik has the scattered pieces of something _dark, _bordering on cruel, festering in the grotto of his consciousness, and Erik is in need of a distraction. Feeling Charles' discomfort as he scrambles for something, _anything, _to grip onto, Erik entwines their hands._

_Charles never hesitates to wholly give himself to his partner on nights like this, but it doesn't stop him from whimpering as he digs his nails into the backs of Erik's hands, leaving angry red half moons lingering behind Erik's knuckles for days to come._

…

Without Erik there, the vast tundra of sheets and pillows that is Charles' bed feels uninhabited, but with every rustle of fabric as Charles breaths, the folds in the duvet yield a whisper of conversation and a sigh of laughter. Charles smirks humourlessly. How fitting, that the sheets Charles would use as a child to play at being a ghost now hold captive the spirits anchoring him in his past.


End file.
